


12 Days

by themissinglenk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin, shingeki no homos
Genre: M/M, Multi, xmas, xmas 2013
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themissinglenk/pseuds/themissinglenk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so we embark on another poor writing decision—I mean a collection of unrelated one-shots for the next 12 days until Christmas!! (ﾉﾟοﾟ)ﾉﾐ★゜・。。・゜゜・Like those big holiday candy advent card things, except instead of chocolate you’ll get fluff. And dicks. Maybe chocolate-covered dicks. // one-shots, multi, aus/canon (possibly)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. day i ☆ a partridge in a pear tree

One part Oronoco, another two parts pear liqueur and pomegranate juice, splash of grenadine, shake and hit the rocks, make all gay and festive-looking with a tiny pear slice and a sprig of rosemary symbolizing either mistletoe or a tree branch. Partridge in a Pear Tree.

“Thanks,” Eren grunted, taking the drink slid his way. The bartender had taken his fake just fine. Around him, noise was a riptide. Voices and movement and laughter and the sounds of an active bar, and if Eren zoned out hard enough, it really did sound like water. The crash of tide and hiss of suds, a pattern with different pitches and plenty of recurring notes.

It smelled like fir trees and booze in Scout. Normally Eren didn’t like this joint unless someone had rented out the VIP party room or really wanted Scout’s infamous sweet potato fries or it was amateur rock night and that sweet little stage across the place could actually be used for something other than storage—or, this time of year, a parade of Christmas decorations. Scout was just too stuffy and classy, the game-themed pub love child of Kell’s and the Elephant and Castle. Eren much preferred High Dive or the Rock, but Scout had been the closest with discounted drinks and he didn’t want to wander too far because Mikasa and Armin still had to pick him up.

“Does your grandma know you’ve got her sweater?” the bartender snorted.  

Eren looked up, straw dancing away from his blindly searching mouth. He swallowed, pulling his tongue back behind his teeth before he seemed even more idiotic. “Excuse me?”

The bartender cocked a brow, smirking at him from the tap as he refilled a few beers. Oh shit. Eren was the only lone soul at the bar, wasn’t he? Awesome. Loser. Not even the waiters zipping to and fro from their little register and refill station lingered as long as him, and he looked about as miserable and pathetic as he felt, swinging back and forth on the leather-topped stool like a kid bored in school, hunched forward and sipping his Christmasy bitch drink with no hands and even less holiday cheer.

_Grandma… Sweater…_

Eren scowled up at the bartender and hoped he didn’t miss the way his lip curled. “I was at an ugly Christmas sweater party before this,” he explained, finally lifting one arm to rake a frustrated hand through his already messy hair and then slouch into his elbow.

“Ugly Christmas sweater party?”

“Yeah. Today’s the twentieth. That’s National Ugly Christmas Sweater day, or some shit.”

“I didn’t get the memo. Then again, I also have to work and the ugly Christmas sweater thing looks good on you and all, but I’ve got a strict black-and-black dress code.”

“Well, the black-and-black looks nice on you, too.”

“Thanks.”

Free of tasks again, the bartender offered a little smile. It wasn’t cunning or playful anymore. It was just nice. And Eren chewed on his straw, glaring still, examining the dimples in the bartender’s cheeks and the perfect shape of his face and the way the low lights glinted off the rings on his fingers, and the boyish studs in his ears, which his two-toned fauxhawk framed quite nicely. Was that a tattoo peeking out of his sleeves? God, he _looked_ like a bartender.

“I’m Eren,” Eren mumbled around his straw, sticking a hand out.

“Jean.” The bartender shook his hand very briefly, and then it was off to chat up a regular and fetch their usual cocktail.

The riptide of sounds swirled around Eren. He wished it would distract him. He felt bruised and tired and sort of empty, and the second Partridge in a Pear Tree wasn’t really helping. It wasn’t strong enough, he guessed. He was a lush but he wasn’t a lightweight. Not much anymore, at least.

“It’s not my grandma’s sweater, by the way,” Eren justified, cocking a brow at Jean the bartender once it was just the two of them again.

“Oh really?”

“You think my grandma would have a sweater with three humping reindeer on the front? No. I think not.”

“You never know. Some grandmas are pretty rad.”

_Rad_. Eren snorted again, something between a scoff and a laugh. “I guess. Whatever.”

“You know you still have two gift bows stuck to your chest?”

“ _Shit_.” Eren rolled his eyes and plucked the gift bows off his sweater. “Fucking Ymir and Christa put them on me,” he grumbled sheepishly, like Jean would even understand.

“So why’d you leave the ugly Christmas sweater party?” Jean busied himself with the bar towel for a moment or two, then leaned against the back and watched Eren idly, twirling the towel limply in his hands. “It sounds like a real fun time. A lot more fun than here, anyway. Scout’s dead on Sundays.”

Eren shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me. I work a bar. I’ve heard more ‘It’s complicated’ tales than you’ll experience in your lifetime. Probably.”

“Okay, then…” Eren drummed his fingers on the smooth surface of the bar. “I’ve been sort of fooling around with one of my professors and it’s nice and all, he’s fucking hot and really good to me when he’s in the right mood—you know, expensive dates and bomb sex and—the real deal, okay? But his harlequin dream of an ex showed up at the party and—if you saw the way Levi _looks_ at him, it’s just like—I’m not jealous, I’m just greedy. I want what I want when I want it and Mr. Sexy Ex-Boyfriend gets in the way. How the fuck do I compare to tall blond Adonis factor? I’m just a crazy U-Dub kid fucking my teacher. Erwin’s all anyone could ever want—financial security, every romantic trick in the book, big blue eyes—he’s a _doctor_ for Christ’s sake—he’s Mr. Fucking Perfect, I’m not even joking—and if Levi wants to hook up with him again, fine by me, but I’m not gonna help pick up the pieces when Erwin breaks his heart _again_. I’ve done that too many times and I’m starting to get irritated. If they want each other, they need to man up about it. They already act like a married couple and it’s so cute, it’s appalling, so…”

Eren took a long breath and then sighed. It felt good to get it out there in the open. It wasn’t locked up inside anymore, poisoning him. He felt better already. Was this why people journaled? He nibbled on his straw again, glancing up to meet Jean’s eyes innocently.

“Well.” Jean cleared his throat. Raised his brows. Was he blushing? Ha. Had he taken Eren for some douche bag frat boy who’d been dumped by a cute girl or something? Surprise, Jeany boy. You opened the wrong can of homosexually frustrated worms tonight. “Well,” Jean said again, the ghost of a smirk flickering through his face. “That’s not _so_ complicated. Is that why you wore that sweater? To drop a hint or two—or three?”

Eren almost choked on his Partridge in a Pear Tree. “Oh my God!” he sputtered, laughing so suddenly and loudly that it actually made his abdomen cramp for a painful few breaths. “A threesome with Handsome and Tiny Tim? That would be hella awkward.”

“Then a ménage à trois?”

“What’s the difference?”

“A ménage à trois is a living situation—never mind. I mean, _that_ would definitely make it complicated, right?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, you have a right to be upset.”

“Sort of. But not really. Because if I’m upset Levi shrugged me off tonight, then I have to admit I care about Levi that much.”

“Do you?”

“Well…” Eren frowned. Now _he_ was the flustered one. Fuck this. He fidgeted, kicking his heel against the barstool. “I like when he smiles and I like having sex with him and I like arguing with him and then cleaning the house to apologize. But I’m not ready to give a shit about financial security and classy combed hair. Like I said—I want what I want when I want it. That’s all.”

“And you want Levi?”

Eren issued a moody shrug. “Not tonight I don’t. Erwin can have him.”

“Listen.” Jean sighed, leaning down on the bar in front of Eren. “If he can’t figure out what he wants, it’s his problem.”

“Exactly.”

“And in my opinion, if he’s still unsure even when he’s got something great going for him, he’s an idiot.”

Wait. What? Eren frowned, cutting Jean a suspicious glance.

Jean seemed to pick up on the unspoken question. “What I mean is, if I had a guy as cute as you, I sure as hell wouldn’t give him up.”  

A short hush fell over the bar. The swirling tide of other noise was far, far away. Eren blushed, hot. He’d gone from miserable to justified to annoyed again to—flirting? His heart gave an embarrassed little flutter and he glanced away with another stubborn kick to the barstool. Because admittedly, Jean was pretty cute, too. Okay—he was a fucking babe. And maybe Eren had been checking him out from the start, anyway. And maybe it would be nice to kiss someone taller than him under the mistletoe over there. And maybe Jean wasn’t just sweet-talking him for a nice tip, maybe judging by that heated glint in Jean’s skittish eyes, he was telling the truth.

“I wanna believe you, but I’m wearing the world’s fugliest Christmas sweater and that makes me feel pretty patronized right now,” Eren grumbled.

“Try me,” Jean husked again. He checked the clock. “I’m off in fifteen minutes. You wanna hit up someplace a little livelier once I’m out of here?”

Seriously?

Eren couldn’t stop the stupid smile. It was a Christmas morning grade grin, he was well aware. And he didn’t even care. “Okay,” he mumbled. “I mean, if you want to. I’m sure you’ve got your own ‘It’s complicated’ we could laugh about, too.”

“Nah.” Jean shrugged idly. God, he was a stud. Maybe Eren should order one more drink—top shelf or bottom—just to admire Jean’s ass a little more. Okay, that was out of hand. Maybe not. Thinking about kissing under the mistletoe was a lot more exciting. Like wondering how the curve of that lower lip tasted, or how firm the kiss would be, how rough or how patient, maybe shy, maybe ballsy, a hand to the back of the head, another arm around the waist, greedy just like Eren was, sweeping him away in the wake of his complicated night to remind him what it was like when someone wanted someone else and no one else and wasn’t confused or distracted, and maybe there’d be a slip of tongue, and his fingers would curl in Jean’s jacket—what kind of jacket was Jean, anyway? A hoodie? A toggle coat? A North Face? A denim and sweatshirt?

“Nah,” Jean said again. “You seem complicated enough, but you know what—I’m up for the challenge.”

Maybe Eren’s moral compass was defective, but he found that exceedingly satisfying. Hook, line, and sinker. He wanted to feel Jean’s heartbeat under his palm.

And who would have ever guessed when he’d bought the awful reindeer threesome sweater that Jean the cute bartender’s fingers would have been slipping up under the end of it near his belt-loops—just a sneak—just a brush of knuckles against hot skin—when he paused to kiss Eren on the cheek under the mistletoe on their way out of Scout. Eren turned his face, catching the corner of Jean’s mouth. There you go—like that—quick, dry, but a real kiss—and—Jesus, who did shit like this, accidentally picking up bartenders—Levi was going to kill him—but maybe it was time for them to take a break, anyway—maybe it was inevitable with Erwin on the rebound and all, and Levi would feel less guilty if Eren had another booty call waiting, too—

“You taste like a Partridge in a Pear Tree,” Jean grunted, and Eren laughed, making Jean hurry around patches of ice on the sidewalk to catch up with him as the crosswalk lights changed from green to flashing orange. But Jean did hurry after him, even as cars turning right honked and shouted obscenities. Jean caught up. And that was a very, very good sign.

**_day i ☆ end.  
_ **


	2. day ii ☆ two turtle doves

The sunrise was one of the world’s treasures.

The other was Marco’s laughter.

Jean was afraid he’d fall immune to the purity of sunrises if he kept seeing so many. Calm, pale, and silken gold-veined magic, from a crooked rooftop over Trost. First that eerie gray light slithered through the world, as if springing from the very ground itself. The quiet of sunrise surrounded, caressed, swallowed one whole. And then the thickest of clouds began to lighten, turning deep dark violet and blue, and then very pale pink from what you could see over the rooftops and chimneypots. The districts came fully alive with the rattling sauntering morning life—the narrow alleyways and sloping streets finally empty of lumbering monsters and strewn corpses. They had the orphanatoriums and hospitals and other charitable organizations helping now that they’d carted all the rotting bodies away. And there was something just a little off to Jean about watching kids and nurses dump buckets of water down twisting cobbles and walkways, thirsty kittens lapping at the little streams washing dark claret smears to rusty gray.

Jean was afraid of getting used to sunrises, however—to the rank perfume of burning bodies, he would never find himself desensitized.

 _Two days_.

Marco’s body had been stiff, his skin a cold alabaster, sitting in a puddle of glass that had rained from shattered windows.

_Two days, and died alone—_

“Hey, take it easy, you two…”

“Jean and his roundabout declarations of love…”

“Courage ain’t no quality of mine.”

_Jean…_

His eyes burned. Not from tears, anyway. No, tears were slow to come. They had to climb the wall of shock to fall freely. His eyes burned from the smoke still, and the lack of sleep, but the clammy kiss of early morning was nice and he didn’t think he’d be sleeping for a while, for fear of nightmares.

“You need to,” Armin had urged. Fucking Armin and his owl eyes.

“You gotta get some rest, Jean,” Sasha had said, fingers digging into his arm. Fucking Sasha could sleep through anything.

“Jean, not sleeping isn’t going to make anyone come back to life, not Marco, not Thomas, not Hannah, not my mom, not Armin’s grandpa, not Mikasa’s parents—” was probably what Eren would have spat, but fucking Eren didn’t fucking understand because he was starry-eyed with the Scouting Legion’s intervention, a fucking maniac with a broken moral compass and a death wish and apparently a fucking cat with nine _thousand_ lives. But he’d been lugged off for trial almost immediately so Jean argued with him in his head about the carnage instead—missing heads, bodyless limbs, torsos chomped in half, putrid tangles of the dead, wads of titan vomit.

Jean did not sleep after the communal funeral pyre.

He sat on the rooftops closest to their station and threw pebbles and a little bit of seed at the turtle doves clustered around chimneystacks. The world was windless and full of ghostly shades, eerily lit in those moments before dawn actually broke.

The riptide of survivor’s guilt hadn’t even touched him yet. It was still just the cold, volatile shock.

When he’d been younger, he’d played with soldiers made of tin. He’d felt like a soldier made of tin trapped with everyone in that moldy underground supply room. Actually, he hadn’t felt like a soldier at all. None of them had been soldiers then, trainees or not. They’d all just been scared little kids again, relying on innocence and instinct, devising a madman’s plan to shoot and jump. It had worked, sure. But it made Jean think.

Was a real soldier even…real? Or was every man in escutcheoned brown leather just another scared child fighting to survive? When did a man become a soldier? When his eyes haunted with the thousand-yard stare? When he watched his blood brothers die? When he made his first kill? When he no longer felt afraid? But what became of a man’s soul when he was no longer afraid? Fear was the seed of hope. And hope was what kept a man going. Wasn’t it?

Marco had smiled in the face of Armin’s plan. _Smiled_. That lovely freckled smile Jean had so loved to catch under his own mouth, in the darkness when the rest of their bunkmates were either asleep or similarly preoccupied boasting about this mark or that, or nursing their own loneliness with a boyish hand. Marco had _smiled_ , so Goddamn in command of himself and everyone else, and Jean had felt so inadequate. Fucking psycho. Fucking genuine heart of gold perfect human being psycho. Marco wanted to inspire hope. Marco wanted to protect the king whether it meant his own skin or not. Marco had been a courageous fool and Jean had been a fool with no courage and Marco had _died alone_ _like Jean had promised him he wouldn’t ever let happen_ —

A cold empty wave crested with a bitter taste in the back of the throat. A turtle dove was purring in the gutter a few yards away.

“The turtle doves are what they release at weddings,” his grandmamma had said. “To remind of faithful and loyal love. Once a turtle dove mates, it stays with that partner forever—even when it dies. Ever notice how it sounds like they’re crying? They use the lonely ones at funeral pyres, too. The Sad Psalms of the goddesses—they were first written to the tune of the turtle doves’ mourning wail… Did you know that, Jeanny?”

“ _How fucked up!_ ” Jean howled, as loud as he could, because it felt good, felt so damn good to scream, and he loved the way his voice cracked and echoed and bounced around the shingles and stacked-stone. A group of marketmen held their straw hats and looked up at him dubiously from the ground below. Jean spit over the side of the roof at them and clambered to stand, disappearing from their sight.

The turtle dove was still crying. Jean crouched near a chimneystack and threw a rock at it. Fuck you, birds. One of you will be gone soon and the other left to mourn just like Jean. One of you—

One of them was already gone. It was in the gutter.

“Oh, fuck—” Jean whispered, heart falling past his stomach. The turtle dove in the gutter had a discarded military blade stuck in it like a gutted foul at the butcher’s. Another civilian casualty. Somehow it was still alive—but barely. Twitching and cooing weakly for the other. Dying a miserable, painful death pinioned into the gutter like that. And all because of them. Because the lesser animals were crushed underfoot in the mad scramble to kill the monsters that threatened _man_ , but never mind men were still monsters that threatened deer and hogs and…

It was a grisly sight. Jean couldn’t stand it. Who was the careless motherfucker who’d tossed their broken blade without looking? How long had the bird been stuck like that, unable to live and unable to die, except by starvation or some shit?

Jean swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. Emotion burned the backs of his eyes—weary, heavy emotion. Jean carefully took the bird out of the gutter, heels of his boots scraping against the rooftop. How awful was it to feel a helpless creature in his fingers, warm and clinging to life with the last few shreds.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice quavering. “It’s all right. You won’t die alone.”

Jean closed his eyes tight, clenching his teeth. The _pop-pop_ as he gingerly broke the turtle dove’s neck to put it out of its misery made his stomach turn, like the indescribable feel of the life going out of something in his palms. Clutching the bloody bird to his chest, he lurched to the side and threw up off the rooftop. Just a little. He hadn’t eaten enough in the last twenty-four hours to make much of a mess.

He signed the holy trinity of goddesses and wished he could make a grave for the turtle dove.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he mumbled to the other one. At his movement closer, the other turtle dove took flight and disappeared as if to say, _Fuck you, too, motherfucker, that was my man._

Jean watched the sun rise over Trost, heart aching.

Well, at least the bird hadn’t died alone.

**_day ii ☆ end._ **


	3. day iii ☆ three french hens

_Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of a tiny man—_

_Be he alive, or be he dead—_

_I’ll have his bones to grind my bread!_

That was what the giants in Armin’s fairy tale books roared, after Jack took the magic beans from the haggler on the way to sell the useless cow.

But see, hagglers didn’t offer magic beans to dirty-kneed boys like Eren. Hagglers crooned things like, “Hey, little man, I’ll give you a basket of real fresh and unbruised fruit if you give me a little head…”

Eren cast the alley scum a dark and damning look, lip curling in disgust. He muttered, “ _Please_ , motherfucker, I’ve killed men ballsier than you—” and gave a quick kick to the shins before grabbing the basket of fresh fruit and cackling madly as he bolted away.

To yell “ _Eat shit and die!_ ” with an obscene gesture or two would have been sufficient—but Eren hadn’t paused to consider less reckless responses. He rarely stopped to evaluate things like that.

That was Armin’s scheme, anyway, which he’d taught Eren when Eren had gotten suspicious about where the extra rations came from—letting a lurker reach down his pants with obvious intentions, like Eren did by himself when everyone else was asleep and he was consumed by daydreams of the world outside and nostalgia, wondering when he’d next jump on a moldy crate to see over the crowd as the Scouting Legion paraded through, their bloody bandages as handsome as their battle-worn shadows, Commander Handsome all the giggling girls called the squadron general, valorously leading humanity’s notorious Titan-slayers, and it was funny how he got stiff over stuff like that. He was fucked up.

No, Eren had only conceded to the groping game and alley quickies three times in his life, and one of them had been when it was Mikasa’s birthday and he’d _really_ wanted to get her a chocolate croissant to eat for breakfast, and another time had been when those thugs had cut them in line and stolen their week’s rations so he’d had to do _something_ to not go empty-stomached all weekend, and the last time had been when Armin had had that fever for days and the apothecary man had wanted something other than coin for the strong stuff. It was sick and depraved and Eren laughed in the face of danger, rolling his eyes at how easy it was.

“Run—”

“Get back here!”

“Stop, thief!”

“Let them go. They’re orphans. They don’t know any better.”

“ _Fucking orphans_ —”

Eren hated being lumped into orphanhood. His father wasn’t dead—that he knew of, at least. And he was confident his father would be back soon to save them.

“You don’t know that,” Armin whispered, candlelight bouncing on his grave little face in the dark of his grandfather’s house.

But then Armin’s grandfather disappeared into the stream of despairing workers, marching through the gates to their own graves in a campaign doomed from the start to retake Titan-infested lands.

After the fall of Wall Maria, there weren’t many options for an almost-orphan and his orphan crew after the boats unloaded in the new outskirts: mope around in the orphanatoriums, dirty and sniveling and begging on the stoop; join the ranks of rampsmen and conmen, tooling and dipping the crowds, playing crow and cracker and body-snatcher, picking the pockets of Wallists on the way to service and swindling good working class folks out of their hard-earned coin and, if they weren’t careful, getting swept away and sold; or work the fields and mines and farms like the other honorable and broken souls, paying their dues to the monarchy for its safekeeping of southern refugees.

“Don’t cry,” Mikasa whispered, wiping at Armin’s tears with the red scarf that bound them all together, crouched on her haunches at the bedside in Märchen Haus, the bigger of the district’s orphanatoriums. Red like blood. Red like sunset. Red like feeling. “At least you have your grandpa’s hat, still.”

They slept three to a bed and six beds to a long narrow room in Märchen Haus, cold hungry tired children with the eyes of weary souls, given board and food and a tiny bit of pity education from the nurses every other weekday, so long as they logged a certain amount of working hours each fortnight. They snuggled close together for warmth, Eren the monkey in the middle, and all the other kids hated them because they stayed up the latest whispering together about better days, so hungry all the time and dreaming up fantastic feasts and banquets for made-up holidays mocking the monarchy.

Hands, blistered from working. Eyes, sore and scratchy from exhaustion. Heads full of fancies about roast and fresh jam and warm bread and sweet coffee, and basements and scaling walls, and beaches and real wind. Counting the days until they could enroll in the military, where rations were always available and beds were warm and responsibility earned a man a little bit of life back.

They had Mikasa working in the mills like the other girls—that is, until her wide-eyed and eerie silence caused trouble amongst preteens in need of an outsider for some warped sense of community, and so the Governess of Märchen Haus agreed with Eren’s suggestion she’d do better nannying the children at the farm where he and Armin worked.

Armin smuggled books in to read in the loft over the stables when they were supposed to be shoveling horse shit.

Grimoires and leather-bound treatises, and faded maps and books about the outside world that ran Armin the risk of spending a night in the district’s draconian holding. During afternoon tea, Mikasa snuck out into the stables to listen to Armin read, huddled together in the loft where the bats hung in the rafters and the mice skittered about squeaking cheerfully and nibbling at curious fingers, all ticklish whispers and beady eyes, and the sweet scent of hay was comforting like the snort and stomp of brushed horses down below.

Armin whispered stories to them—of beanstalks and a land of giants—and sea filled with salt, and ice ground and fire water—finger following the words as he read with a tight, smart articulation. Mikasa stared dully at the pages, uninterested in the lost art form of reading. Eren was trying to teach himself the words he didn’t know before Armin realized he didn’t know them.

“Package,” mousy Governess Johanna sighed, and all the other children who shared the same Märchen Haus room were either in the mess hall or the shabby lounge, playing games by the glowing hearth while the feast day snow left lacey patterns on the multipaned windows.

Armin looked to Eren; Mikasa looked to Armin; Eren stared at Governess Johanna, heart jumping to his throat.

“For who?” He could barely get the words out. Nobody in Märchen Haus got any sort of correspondence unless they had some benevolent patron in the nunneries or the wealthy guilds.

“ _You_ ,” Governess Johanna sniffed, shoving the package Eren’s way.

 _No_. _Couldn’t be_.

“What is it?” Mikasa hissed, pressing her nose to Eren’s shoulder and watching as he tugged at the parcel’s string.

“I don’t know yet, Mikasa—”

“Hurry!” Armin urged, wooden slats under the mattress creaking as their weight shifted like rats rustling in the gutter. Eren’s heart thudded in his ears. Sure enough, the tag on the parcel had his name on it.

And he recognized that shorthand.

 _EREN_.

The package was from his father.

No return address, no post tracking. But Eren knew, without a doubt, it was from his father, and the holiday hymns echoed up from the lounge downstairs where one of the Governesses had opened the painted keyboard and started to play, and Armin and Mikasa huddled at Eren’s sides like the angel and devil on both shoulders, and the sound of Eren clawing away the parcel paper was deafening in the brittle hush of anticipation—

Three ration cards, waived and endorsed by the king. Three ration cards to be redeemed at any MP-sponsored market or kitchen, each worth a feast day dinner for one. A French hen, pickled herring, a loaf of bread, boiled cabbage, boiled potatoes, and cranberry jam. Why, that much food on one ration card! That much food could feed the three of them for a weekend, and they had _three times_ as much.

Armin’s fingers tightened in Eren’s shirt, knuckles white, and Eren knew he was choked up. Mikasa stared gravely, but her lips were parted where she nuzzled into the red scarf, a look of respectful awe.

“Tidings of joy be with you…” Eren mumbled the proper holiday exchange for the end of the year goddess feast days, passing around the ration cards. He hadn’t expected to even have a reason to say it this year, because no number of velvet bows and strings of berries and wreaths of holly and alley carolers could distract from the drab and dreary reality of men and women in denial of a greater calamity outside the icy walls.

“As with you,” Mikasa whispered, paper-thin and sweet as a rose.

“As with you,” Armin echoed, face dimpling as he tried to stay strong and blink away the tears of relief.

“Three French hens!” Eren cried triumphantly, jumping up off the bed to do an excited little jig. “This is the best!”

Where the fuck was his father? Why had he only sent a package and not come to redeem them from this hell? How had he gotten his hands on such priceless ration cards? How did he know where Eren was?

Didn’t matter. He had Armin and Mikasa in his arms, and the Governess Keira was hissing at them to keep quiet, and wherever his father was—whatever he was doing—however much longer he had to wait to see him again, because he was alive, he knew he was alive, out there somewhere in the world—Eren vowed to send a few prayers of thanks and security his way before falling asleep that night.

“Read the book about the outside world again,” Mikasa peeped much to Armin and Eren’s surprise, and _that_ was even more of a holiday miracle than his father’s mysterious gift.

 ** _day iii_** ☆ **_end._**


	4. day iv ☆ four colly birds

Blackbirds were a portentous omen, and especially in Yuletide days when the magic of the world was at its dark and mystical zenith, their coarse raspy calls gave Levi knowing chills.

Blackbirds—rooks—ravens—the bird of witchcraft and curses and death, Morrigan’s bird, Odin’s spies, the spirits of murdered men and exorcised revenants, the conduits of sorcery, the creature that taught Adam and Eve to bury Abel. The tapping of a blackbird on the window heralded bad luck, like their roosts in the chimneypots or their circling of a house.

It was a full moon tonight. The crepuscular life was all askew with the lunar flow. A blur of green wool cloak and hood, Levi was one with the bold smears of tree trunks and shrubbery in the gossamer fog, squinting up through the thick trees at the blackbirds following him home. If only he could speak their awful cawing language. He felt like they were talking about him, squawking to and fro as they did.

He moved like a ghost through the forest, knowing by heart the way back to Trostnikov. The distant whisper of the river guided him. Past the old cemetery with its broken and frost-bitten tombstones, crying angels and crooked fence. Did the children still play hide-and-seek in the abandoned wooden church there, where the bats and owls slept in the onion dome and the belfry, and the mice lived in the holes under the stripped iconostasis?

 _Snap_.

Levi froze. Was that a twig under his nimble feet, or was someone following him? Someone, something, other than the blackbirds, navigating the footprints he left in the fresh snow?

 _Trostnikov_.

Past the bathhouses, the empty _dachas_ , the church. With the livestock hidden away to keep warm and the summer homes of the privileged abandoned for the season, Trostnikov was subdued under a blanket of snow. Candles burned in _izba_ windows. The cold gray dark of a winter evening had swallowed the world whole by the time he shook off the snow and slithered out of his cloak, safe inside and signing the cross to the icon corner near the windows.

“Petra…”

No answer. Of course; Petra was more than likely down at Hanji’s, making candles and translating literature for men who’d once supped with Peter the Great.

But Levi still had the unnerving feeling that he was not alone.

He peeked through the curtains into the opposite room. He stood warming himself near the stove for a moment, surveying the shadowy home. He climbed the narrow steps to peek into the loft. Peeling paint, chipped plaster, wrought-iron fixtures, icons and cluster of candles on the table in the corner, elaborate woodwork and the winter night clawing at the windows. Fresh perfume of Yolka greenery. Nothing out of place. Nothing out of the ordinary—

There was a tapping at the door.

Levi jumped. Masqueraders, perhaps, to sing carols and read poems in their stinking animal masks?

Levi threw the door open, not willing to offer any food—mostly because the first star hadn’t appeared in the sky yet and so the fast was still on—but alas, there was nothing and no one. Nothing and no one but a blackbird, with a flutter of wings and a horrible cry swooping away from the door, and the brumal wind whistling a Christmas hymn. An awful gnawing unease began to creep through him.

He closed the door and almost fell down against it when he turned around and found Erwin seated pleasantly before the hearth, warming his hands and smiling an absent and charming smile.

“ _Ahh!_ ”

Erwin didn’t seem perturbed. He turned a little more, smiling so tenderly at Levi where Levi had crumpled down to the floor, hands covering his head instinctively.

“ _S Rozhdestvom_ ,” Erwin purred.

Disbelief pierced with a cold black finger. The cawing of the blackbirds echoed to the thud of Levi’s racing heart. He’d known, he’d known something was just not right—and—

Levi swung up off his haunches and lunged forth, dealing Erwin a few good smacks before throwing his arms around his broad lovely shoulders, scrambling up onto his lap and, like a miserly little boy, bursting into tears. Erwin held him. Erwin didn’t question him when he flung himself away, torn. Didn’t say a word when he dashed for the icon corner, ripping a few prized items of the Hunt out of their secret hiding spots, holy silver blade, vial of diseased blood and phosphorescence water—

But when he spun to address Erwin again, he was caught off guard by how swiftly and silently Erwin had closed the distance between them. Moving like a specter, without a sound, without a sign of disturbance. The candlelight danced on the ashen planes of his face, and Levi’s resolve faltered. If only for a breath or two.

The bounce of warm light made Erwin almost look alive. Healthy shades to his pale face, smudging out the sallow color of a bruise under his eyes—his eyes, which shone so intensely with a preternatural gleam, and Levi’s heart ached fiercely to remember the way Erwin had looked lying out under the window before his funeral—

“ _Vourdalak_ ,” Levi seethed below a low suspicious growl, teeth clenched. He readjusted his clammy grip on the alchemically-empowered blade.

“Levi,” Erwin returned the greeting, voice like burnt velvet on Levi’s vulnerable soul. No, don’t fall for it—the spell of the Undead—

“The last time I saw you, you were not breathing—” he hissed. “How dare you come back wearing his face, mocking me and my grief! Demon!”

“Mocking you and your grief?” Erwin looked genuinely offended. God damn the divine pull, twisting Levi’s heart in its primal grip. But Erwin seemed honestly vexed, and after so long at his side, didn’t Levi know the subtle nuances of his handsome features best? This close to him, the stench of cold dirt was strong. Was it under Erwin’s fingernails, from his ascent from the grave? Had the glowworms danced around him like the beetles in his hair? How had it happened—Hanji had said she’d blessed his soul a thousand times over to prevent this, specifically—how had Levi found himself in this predicament, a Hunter cornered by the Hunted?

When Erwin’s hand touched his face, Levi surrendered in an instant.

He wanted to blame the witchcraft of the Undead. The real blame was elsewhere. His knees went weak and he conceded to Erwin’s loving touch immediately, brokenhearted and desperate to be held by him again. He didn’t want to remember the tragedy of Erwin’s death. He didn’t want to go back to that awful, hellish day, when the best Hunter in the region had finally fallen prey to a wickedly cunning prey—

Erwin’s kiss was bruising. Levi kissed back, hungrily. Thank God there was no one to catch him, seduced ho-hum by a blood-drinker against all his most relentless convictions. Then again, he’d always been a rather wayward soul. It had been Erwin who’d kept him in line, anyway, in a world where folklore was religion and the living had flirted so haplessly with the dead.

The icons fell to the floor with a blasphemous clattering. _Now_ there was no one to see. Fuck it. Levi didn’t care. Erwin had him up on the table, and his legs were around him, and Levi was clinging as if Erwin were his last anchor to the world. Yes, yes, more— _kiss me more_ —love me, love me—

“How is it so?” Levi moaned into Erwin’s shoulder, too desperately and damnably impassioned to feel shame for having a blood-drinker’s hands down his pants.

“By the Baron’s Remedy,” Erwin husked, low in his throat. Carnal and covetous and enough to make Levi hard in his cool fingers. Yes, the candlelight was merciful. Levi held fast, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. “The Baron’s Remedy,” Erwin said again, and relief was touching Erwin’s face and eyelids and lips and feeling they were real, “the exchange of blood, the turning, I was turned—”

“ _I can’t kill you, you wretched fuck!_ ” Levi spat. “And you know it! And yet you still came to me, you rotten bastard, knowing full well I’d fail at the Hunt and break my oaths—”

“I know.” Erwin nuzzled into his ear, and _God_ Levi was bound for hell, so in love with it. Revenant. Vourdalak. He’d seen him dead, for Christ’s sake, and yet he was here and seemingly alive again in his arms.

Ah—

The breaking of the skin sent Levi stiff with shock. Just a pinch at first, right there where Erwin had been kissing his throat, and then an awful burning sensation as Erwin’s tiny razor-sharp teeth tapped into his heartbeat. Levi’s voice shivered and withered away in his throat, from a roar of betrayed rage to a boyish and erotic moan, to a low shuddering whimper at the feel of Erwin swallowing his blood. Pulling at his heart. Draining him of energy. Taking hold of Levi’s soul, it seemed, and dragging it straight down into fire and brimstone.

The world swam out of focus. The candlelight became wavering laurels, astigmatic. Up became down; down became up; dizziness swept him up into her lethargic embrace.

Erwin dropped him to the floor and Levi hadn’t the strength to fight. He tried to focus on breathing, before unconsciousness stole him away.

“I know,” Erwin said again, and Levi would have sworn on his life his pupils had elongated with the draught of blood he’d pulled. He licked the red off his lower lip and Levi’s limp fingers twitched at the sight of his fangs. “I know you couldn’t kill me, love. That is why I came to take you with me.”

 _No_ …

Thud. Thud. Ah, that distant drumbeat was his heart, struggling against the fading consciousness.

_Erwin, please…_

Staining his fine funeral garb with a few vibrant drops of claret, Erwin bit into his own wrist and pressed it bloody and warm to Levi’s mouth.

“Drink.”

_No, Erwin, I can’t, the oaths, you’re a monster, I won’t, I haven’t even seen the first star of Christmas Eve…_

“DRINK, LEVI, GOD DAMMIT, I CLAWED MY WAY OUT OF THE GRAVE LIKE A _WORM_ FOR YOU!”

 _Stop screaming, Erwin, you’re scaring me_ —

The blood burned the tip of Levi’s tongue, metallic and strong. He swallowed. He lapped at it. He was suddenly overcome by a feral instinct and he clutched onto Erwin’s pale wrist, sucking hard. A cocktail of revenant blood mixed with his own blood, infusing him with a newfound instinct to live.

Erwin sat under the window where they’d lain him out for his wake, watching calmly as Levi screamed and writhed on the floorboards, the witchcraft of the Undead biotics transforming every fiber of his being. The last string of mortality snapped; humanity gave way.

“I love you,” Erwin whispered as Levi’s fingernails scraped at the gray floorboards, and the tears rolled down his little face in the agony of dying and being Reborn. “I promised you I’d never leave you.”

The blackbirds watched from the window, where the ice was forming lacy designs on the old glass. One bird for Christmases Passed, another for Christmases to Come, a third for Christmas Now, and a last for Christmas Magic.

**_day iv ☆ end._ **


End file.
